


Maybe When You're Older You Will Understand

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Relationship, Spring Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It would be so, so easy to slip back into the old routine.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe When You're Older You Will Understand

**Author's Note:**

> I started this when the Tigers signed Jarrod Saltalamacchia. 
> 
> Title from "Modern Man," by Arcade Fire.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

It would be so, so easy to slip back into the old routine. Before wives and kids, three a.m. bottle feedings, way too many sleepless nights to count. When it was just the two of them in a dark hotel room on the road, furtive handjobs and stolen moments under the cover of night with only a sliver of moonlight peeking in from behind the curtains. 

Maybe that’s the scariest part, the fact it would be so— _too_ —easy to picture himself calling Salty up at whatever overpriced condo he decides to squat in for the season and invite him to come over. Ostensibly for beer and “male bonding”—until one beer becomes two beers becomes three beers becomes their clothes coming off. It’s scary and exciting all at once.

He doesn't reach out when news of the signing first breaks, just fires off a brusque _see u in lakeland i guess_ congratulatory text. There’s way too much for Ian to say that can’t really be encompassed in a text or a phone call, anyway, and he just doesn't want to deal with it. It’s easier to pretend it away.

Ian had thought—after his trade and Salty’s signing in Miami and marriage counseling and threats of a “trial separation”—that he was done with it all. That he could wash his hands of it and leave Salty safely in the past and continue his forward progress. Life’s never been that kind to him though, he supposes. God, if there is one, is probably getting a laugh or two in at Ian’s expense.

He doesn't get a response to his text but, then again, he hadn’t been expecting one. 

They don’t see each other until the day pitchers and catchers report to camp. Ian comes down early—definitely not to see Salty—to get some workouts in with Nick, J.D., and Miggy. If he happens to run into Salty while he’s there, so be it. Not like he’s actively searching him out or anything.

But, it turns out, Salty is actively searching _Ian_ out. No one’d told Salty he should be mad at Ian for unceremoniously dropping the threads of communication, or something. 

“Kins! Hey, long time, no see!” 

Ian steps out of the training complex and into direct sunlight. He squints in the direction of the voice—Salty’s voice—and shades his eyes with his hand. Salty is trotting in his direction, unstrapped plastic guards slapping against his shins. He has his helmet clasped under one arm.

Salty looks like a puppy. A big, dumb, happy puppy whose master has finally returned home after a long day at work. Ian shoos away an inconvenient stab of guilt.

“Hey, man. How you been?” Ian offers his hand, which Salty accepts—but only to trick him and pull him into a big bear hug. 

If Ian had known he was going to do that, he wouldn’t have offered his hand. Ian’s feeling benevolent today for some reason, though. He allows this hug and looks over Salty’s shoulder, hoping none of their teammates have noticed.

“I’ve been good. Tess and the kids are good,” Ian adds as he withdraws, even though Salty hadn’t asked after Tess and the kids. “How about Ashley and the girls? They in town?”

“Nah,” Salty says, looking a bit stung. Ian darts his eyes away from his hangdog expression. “They’re staying in West Palm Beach through the school year, then they’ll join me in Detroit for the summer.”

“That’s too bad,” Ian says. 

“Yeah,” Salty says agreeably. 

They let the conversation fall then, like a pane of shattering glass. Salty scuffs his feet and those plastic shin guards flap annoyingly some more. Ian kicks him gently in the shin.

Salty looks at him, his eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth tightening briefly before releasing. A more familiar, friendly expression settles on his face, but it seems like a put-on. 

It looks like a mask. 

“It’s been too long,” he says.

“Shit happens.” Ian shrugs. “Life gets in the way.”

“We’re both here, now,” Salty says. “In the same place.”

“Are we though?” Ian chooses to be cryptic, knowing how much it used to piss Salty off. 

He doesn't get angry though, like he used to. Salty just sighs and shoves a hand through his curls. Ian can see that his hairline’s receding, and he’s got lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that weren't there when they were—doing what it was they were doing. He’s older now, like Ian. They’re not the same people and suddenly, inexplicably, Ian’s pissed at him for thinking they could recapture it so easily. 

“I never changed.” 

The words are raw, open like a wound that never got to healing. Ian thinks about broken bones reset and healing all wrong, leaving you with a limp and an ache that never quite go away.

“I have.” Ian tips his chin up, gives Salty a nod. He feels bad for some reason, though, and pats him on the shoulder. If his hand lingers for a fraction of a second too long, Salty gives no indication he’s noticed. “Good lookin’ out, Salty. See you around.”

“Yeah, Kins,” he says, softly—too soft—and he finally moves past Ian for the bullpens. 

Ian turns and watches after him. Can’t help himself. An old, bad habit he just hasn’t broken yet, he supposes, with a shrug to no one in particular. Salty keeps his head down, hands shoved deep in his back pockets. His shin guards clack noisily against his legs.

Ian heads to the batting cages to take some cuts.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
